


Peace and War

by notearchiver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Community: deeply_horrible, Depression, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notearchiver/pseuds/notearchiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, it wasn't really the age gap but the experiences that came with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peace and War

**Author's Note:**

> Written for deeply_horrible's 2013 Sloppy Seconds fest.
> 
>  **Title:** Peace and War  
>  **Author:** notearchiver  
>  **Pairing:** Minerva McGonagall/Severus Snape  
>  **Rating:** PG  
>  **Wordcount** : 1,371  
>  **Content Information/Warnings:** implied child abuse, angst, depression, implied canon character death, age difference

* * *

** 36 / 11 **

The first time he sees her he is only eleven and Diagon Alley is still a magical place full of hope and possibilities. It is a time when he weaves through the crowd, trying to distance himself from his mum and the stench of poverty attached to tattered clothes and tired eyes.

He knows they have only enough money to buy a wand, but he enters Flourish and Blotts anyway, entranced by the shelves of books with crisp pages and stiff bindings so unlike the self-updating 1949 edition of _Hogwarts: A History_ tucked under his ragged mattress. It's somewhat useless now, as it only updates to show the current professors, but he has them all memorized, and he knows he's destined for Slytherin and Horace Slughorn.

But there are more important things to know in life than the age of his future professors, so he huddles in a dusty corner, _101 Healing Potions_ clasped between shaky fingers.

When a woman wanders down his aisle, he shrinks into the darkness, hiding from tailored robes and stern bun. After all, being seen means being mocked; for his accent, his clothes, his appearance—that's what the upper class does to waifs from northern England.

The woman picks a book from the shelf, and when she turns to leave, her face is soft and serious and tired. It is also vaguely familiar, and he can't help but think that she is important.

He squints, tilting his head to read the title of the book she clutches.

 _Peace and War: Grindelwald's Effects on Britain_.

He doesn't know who Grindelwald is, but he knows about war; about fists and locks, shouts and silences. Maybe the woman can teach him about peace, but right now peace is a long way off and potions are tangible. So when his mum shouts his name, he wedges the book in the dark corner, hoping to come back.

On his way out the door, he finally realises where he had seen the woman.

** 42 / 17 **

He sits in the squishy chair, listening to the man blather on.

"Don't talk…"

In his peripheral vision he sees her. Straight-backed and rigid, her hands clench at her robes.

"Not an issue…"

She paces—two steps right, two steps left—occasionally stopping to stare stonily at the bearded man.

"Detention—"

His head snaps up, eyes focusing on the man behind the desk. The yellow robes are an affront to his eyes.

"I get detention?" he blurts out, voice cracking with stress. "What the fuck are—"

"Language! You don't speak that way to the headmaster," the woman snaps, robes rippling as she stops her pacing.

He stares at her. She wears glasses now—rectangular frames that hide the slight creases by her eyes.

"I understand." His voice is clipped, and he doesn't turn to address the man. "If I may be dismissed." There is no question, just a deadened end that betrays the spark in his eyes.

"Yes, of course."

He stands and leaves the office, imitating her posture with each step.

** 43 / 18 **

He doesn't know why he steps into her classroom on his way to the carriages. It is his last day at Hogwarts, and all he wants to do is get the fuck out. He doesn't, though. Instead he runs his hand across the empty desks, caressing the furrowed wood. He knows if he looks at the far right desk in the back row there will be a carving of Lupin taking it up the arse (courtesy of Evan) and that the front left desk has a scorch mark from a missed _Incendio_ (it wasn't his fault that Potter moved at the last second).

But he'll be gone in an hour, and life won't be about crude drawings and silly spells. No, the War will carry them down like a hellmouth and spit them out like so much offal. Well-meaning books and noble intentions will do nothing to prevent the baptism of fire.

He gazes at bookshelves behind her desk. Bound pages tell a story of words and ideologies even as a war of spells and curses rages beyond the walls.

But he understands now. She is the Transfiguration professor and attempts to teach children how to turn desks to pigs, matchsticks to needles. Slytherins to Gryffindors. So all he knows is war, because she's never taught him peace.

** 46 / 21 **

He sits in the staff room, cold tea in his right hand, closed book in his left. He has not moved in three hours because it is the winter holidays and there is no reason to. He is twenty-one and much too young to be a professor.

And twenty-one is much too young to die.

When the door shuts with a slam, he doesn't look up.

"The headmaster has been asking after you."

It is her voice: the voice that assesses and judges him. The voice of the woman who never lied to him except by never saying anything.

"Do _not_ ignore me like a sulking sixth year," she says, moving to stand in front of him.

And now he can't ignore her, but nor can he look her in the eyes, so he studies the slight floral print of her summer robes, watching the fabric sway slightly from the breeze coming through the open window.

"There is no reason for you to act like this."

"Really?" he asks. He is too tired to play games, to read or mark papers. To think.

"The War is over. It's time to start the life after." She takes another step forward, and he can imagine her eyes flashing in impatience.

"What life?" he mutters.

"For fuck's sake! People die in wars, but then there's a period of peace and you learn to move on!"

The rage builds in him quicker than he expects it to, and he is suddenly standing, lips tight and hands shaking. "Move on?" he snarls, leaning in so his nose is almost touching hers. "What do you know about moving on?"

He knows she says something in reply, but in that brief space of time all he sees are floating black dots and all he smells is lemon sherbet and ginger. It is an interesting combination, he thinks, but nothing compared to the taste when her lip nudges his and their teeth clatter against each other.

And he is lost. It is nothing like peace but only something like war.

It is rough and messy and quick. There are no words, only the rustle of clothes never removed. She is solid and crisp and nothing like the woman he is thinking of. But then, he is dark and sullen, and he imagines she doesn't really want him either. Not really.

In the haze afterwards, he realises that if she wants to point her wand at him and say those two words, he will let her. There's no reason not to; he is ready to accept death when it comes. After all, anyone can die at twenty-one.

**46 / 21**

He doesn't expect it to happen again, but it does. The apathy has not left, and the rage still simmers, but she tastes of pineapple and saltwater and somehow it works.

**53 / 28**

When she mentions that she's getting older and it's more comfortable on a bed, he doesn't say anything, only knows that this something has somehow become permanent.

**56 / 31**

The boy invades his life, and he swears that the Mark begins to prickle under his skin. When he tells her, she says he's been breathing too many fumes.

**59 / 34**

They both know war is coming. It's in the air as sure as the smell of dragon shit in the Forbidden Forest. Still, when she sees the outline of the Mark for the first time, he doesn't expect her to order him to collect his clothes and get out.

Then again, life after war only lasts until the war starts.

**61, 37**

Severus Snape knows he will die for her. He just doesn't specify which one.

**61, __**

There's always a period of peace after a war, but this time she doesn't know if she can move on.


End file.
